Pains and Twisted Logics
by ImWatchingYou104
Summary: Ivan had always been a good boy. But why were the other children so awful to him? At least Gilbert was always there for him, even if they both hated each other to the blackest depths of each others' souls. Rated M for language, violence, and several touchy subjects. There will probably be sex in later chapters.
1. Prologue

It started in fifth grade...

_A small child, all alone at recess, aproached by a group of others from his class._

_He knew them well. They were tormentors; kids who had their innocence twisted and wretched from them until there was nothing but an empty shell and anger. Alfred always struggled with school, always in the shadow of his younger twin, Matthew; constantly trying to rise to the expectations of his parents. Antonio's English, like his, was poor at best; he was manipulated, coerced into joining this band of misfits. Francis was an abuse victim, looking to take his rage out on someone else. _

_Finally, the one who was the cause of all his misery. The one who always instigated, always lied to gain what he wanted. Gilbert, the outcast. Motherless, shunned by others, and _always all alone_. They were exactly like him, yet they couldn't see past their own pains and twisted logics to notice. And so he acted as their trauma sponge, letting them relieve their frustrations on him._

_He never cried, like they wanted him to. He would always just lay there, curled in the grass while they threw their sneakers into his sides and arms. As the other three were beating him, Gilbert would always stand by, and they would stare into each others' eyes - Albino red coflicting with blue-violet - until the mob tired out and disbanded. They would continue to gaze into each others' faces, emotionless, speaking those unspoken words that could only be felt with the soul. Gilbert never offered to help the Russian to his feet, nor did he ever apologize; and the other didn't care._

_When Gilbert walked away, that was when they both allowed themselves to cry._

Ivan always took the beatings wordlessly, never shedding a tear until he was alone, because that was the only time he felt weak enough to care...


	2. Chapter One

Ivan wandered the halls of his new high school, hollowed and empty eyes seeing the grandeur of the high French windows and the sparkling marble hallways, yet not registering where he was or what he was doing. He ran calloused fingertips over the smooth, cold surface of the blue alabaster walls, yet he did not feel an wondrous feeling of admiration for the nigh perfect architecture. He gazed at busts of great icons such as Shakespeare, Machiavelli, and da Vinci, but there was no stirring of respect inside of him. All of this was what he had expected: empty, shallow, and without meaning. He knew the place was classy, and that his uncle had sent him to this expensive, disgustingly posh place so he wouldn't be such a burden, but he felt no joy nor sorrow over the fact that he was here; and here he would remain until he went to the college of his choice.

His sister expected him to go to Yale. However, he would rather not go to college, and live the remainder of his life alone in a dark, dank room, where he would not be bothered by mortal man. Alas, he did not wish to upset his sister, and so he would go to Yale, obtain a Doctorate, and live in seclusion as a philanthropist or such. The hallway was empty, and seemed to stretch on forever; apparently, classes did not begin until two days from now. Students were already living in dorm rooms, so he surmised that their situation must be somewhat close to his.

They were unwanted, to be blunt. Their parents either had no time for them, or they simply did not want their children around. Others simply wanted to get away, the love and caring they felt from the parents who reached out to them was too much for their spoiled souls; and so they moved away. Ivan wished he could grab all of those brats by the hair and show them that some people - he himself, for an example - had no parents to love and nurture them. They had no mothers to read to them or sing them a lullaby before bed, or fathers to teach them morals and to set an example. In his heart, he knew it would make no difference, but it was worth a try.

Wasn't it?

He turned a corner, wandering aimlessly on heavy feet, until he reached a large rectangular room in the very center of the building. Glancing up, he read the words engraved on the opaque glass plate out loud, and felt a strange tingle go up his spine.

"Amphitheater," he repeated the name softly, feeling that familiar feeling of numbness once again. Slowly, he stretched his arm and wrapped his fingers around the shiny, brass doorknob. It was so cold. As if it was burning through his bones and slowly turning the skin a sick bluish-black. Checking his hand to make sure it was still there, Ivan tried the door.

Locked.

Ivan cast his gaze back down and continued on his way, losing his way once again as he listened to the loud thunk of his sneakers echo throughout the empty halls.

* * *

Gilbert cursed at the wind as he threw his poorly packed duffel bag onto his cot, stomping his feet and kicking the walls. Damn his brother for sending him here! It wasn't like he was a delinquent! Yes, he replaced Ludwig's high-blood pressure medication for sugar pills; yes, he sprinkled laxitives into his potatoes. Did that make him a bad person?

Perhaps. Did that mean his older brother, guardian, and only friend had to pack him up and ship him off to a ritzy boarding school on the other end of Europe? No! He was honestly sick of this shit already; and he hadn't even started classes yet. Huffing, he plopped down onto his bed and repeatedly hit his head against the wall.

Wait, were those footsteps out in the hallway? No one was supposed to be here, besides a select few; and they weren't allowed out of the student accomodation area. He really didn't think Alfred was out for his afternoon snack in the cafeteria, yet (he never got up at any time past eleven); and Antonio and Francis weren't going to be enrolled in this school, at least not this year. Maybe the school was haunted? Whatever it was, he had to investigate; awesome people don't sit by while ghosts roam the halls!

Rushing to the door, his wonderful shit-eating grin plastered to his face, Gilbert peeked into the hallway; then through the door open in shock, because he never expected to see whoever was on the other side of that door ever again.


	3. Chapter Two

**This is a graphic chapter! :D Hurray for you guys! If you don't like porn as much as I do, then skip this chapter! :DDD**

**Rated M, for graphic sexual descriptions~ :D**

* * *

"What are you doing here?" Gilbert screeched, taken aback by the appearance of the Russian. He wasn't used to seeing him without bruises littering his face, and Ivan seemed generally clean and well cared for, not to mention he was at least six foot now; it was such a drastic change from the dirty, black and blue boy that was hardly taller than four-foot-three. Ivan blinked once, slowly, that apathetic mask that he constantly glued to his face unbroken by Gilbert's brazeness. "I am attending school here," he said, in thickly accented English. "Until I go to University."

Oh, fuck no.

This was not awesome! Gilbert couldn't have the Russian here, in the same school. "No," he said, crossing his arms and glaring heatedly at the Slav. "You're not."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why can I not attend a school that my family pays three-thousand dollars a semester for?" Ivan raised an eyebrow, staring through Gilbert and at the wall behind him. "Is it against the law?" Gilbert went red faced, and - instead of responding to the innocent question - went back into his dorm room and slammed the door shut.

* * *

"_Ah!_"

"What's the matter, Artie? Too hard?" Alfred asked sardonically, pivoting his hips against Arthur's. He always made sure he was extra rough with his little Englishman. Leaning down to nibble on Arthur's ear, he groaned as their naked bodies slapped together; the sound of smacking flesh and the banging of the headboard against the wall feeling too loud in the small space.

"Stop teasing me, Alfred!" Arthur wailed, gripping the headboard and biting the pillow. He was older; he was supposed to be on top, damn it! Perhaps a professor having sex with a student - a _male _student - was thought as wrong; especially when it was a prolonged relationship, but the both of them didn't care. "I'm not teasing," Alfred said, smirking against the other man's hair, "if I was teasing, I would do _this._"

He pounded into him, barely brushing against the squishy gland that was Arthur's prostate. This made the Briton scream and wail, and squirm under him. "Oh, _God, Alfred!_"

* * *

Ivan stared at the dark wood of the door, tracing distorted pictures within the grain of the oak finish. He wasn't waiting for anyone - certainly not Gilbert - he was just bored; bored with this school already, bored with people, and bored with life. Sighing through his nose, he stuffed his hands into his pockets, walking away towards an unknown destinaton.

* * *

**Bluh. Short chapter is short. :( Sorry guys, but this is the end of this. I've been dealing with some shit lately, so there may not be any updates for a while. But you'll know if I do! :D**

**Favorites and reveiws, pwease?**


	4. Chapter Three

It had been weeks since their encounter in the hallway, and Ivan was, to put it quite simply,_ bored._ School had started, and he went through trigonometry and calculus without incident; in European History, Gilbert threw a wad of paper at his head (he wasn't bored enough to look at the note that adorned the paper, so he just threw it away at the end of class); in ESL, someone tried to poke him, so he had to show him that the muscles he'd acquired over the years weren't for exhibition (this nearly got him suspended). However, at lunch and in study hall - and the much of the later part of the day, therefore - he remained relatively free from the constant oppression and bullying. That is, until half-way through the last period of the day. He was packing his homework for his dorm, when someone had grabbed the back of his head and forced it against the neighboring locker.

He didn't even need to try to look for him to know who it was. "Well, Braginsky, fancy seeing you here," Alfred cackled. Behind him, Gilbert stood stoically. Ivan glanced at him once, and he averted his eyes to his shoes. "Gilly over there tells me you decided to be a smart-ass today; is that right?"

When Ivan didn't answer his question, Alfred slammed his head against the locker again, causing Ivan to growl as his teeth rattled. Alfred jeered at him. "So, are you a tough guy now, dumb-fuck?" He shook him by his hair. "Well?" Still, Ivan remained silent, choosing to let it be, like so many times before.

He knew Alfred was struggling; and it took all of his willpower to understand this. How he wanted to grab the little blonde fucker by the throat and pound his face into the tile. He wanted to _kill_. Kill everyone...

Gilbert watched, motionless, as Alfred threw the Russian onto the ground; he stared, unblinking, as he repeatedly kicked and swore at him. He wanted to run away, to stop watching; it made a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach to see the first purplish bruises form on his face. He wanted to scream at Alfred to stop; he wanted to stoop down to Ivan and brush the soft, powdery blonde hair from his face as he kissed the blue-black blotches on his skin. But he couldn't. He wouldn't.

To help Ivan meant that Gilbert was weak.

* * *

After Alfred had tired, he went on his way, panting and chuckling triumphantly to himself. Gilbert stayed behind, and stared at Ivan blankly. Ivan, however, didn't look up; he simply lay there, arms laying limp by his head and hollow, emotionless eyes staring at the wall behind him. Gilbert bit his lip, waiting for Ivan to acknowledge him, glare at him, spit on him; anything but remain silent and unmoving. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, and when he was afraid that he'd finally killed him, he slowly nudged the Russian's face with his shoe.

Only then did Ivan glance up at him. Gilbert winced at the apathy in his stare and looked at his feet, unceremoniously stepping over the unmoving body beneath him and continuing on his way.

* * *

Some time later, Ivan decided that it was best if he got up from the floor and went to his dorm. Grunting, he hefted himself up on sore arms and limped to his discarded bag, which lay open like a gutted fish by his locker. Gathering his papers, he stuffed them into his bag, slung it over his bruising shoulder, and went down the hall to his dorm. He didn't cry; he merely wiped his eye, only to find dryness. The tears had withered up long ago.

He reached the door of his room, opening it slowly, afraid someone was waiting for him behind the heavy oak. He sighed in relief when he found the space empty and dark, just as he had left it this morning. Plopping into his desk, he flicked on the lamp and began working on his homework, slowly going through European History and ESL when a knock came to his door. Yawning, he looked at the clock; 6:30. Damn.

He had missed dinner.

If he hadn't showed up, then he was probably being dogged by a hall-monitor. Stretching, he went to his door, opened it, and - lo and behold! - there stood a small, lightly tanned young woman in an orange vest, holding a clipboard. "Braginsky?" she asked, her voice melodic and slightly...French-sounding. He nodded. "You didn't show up for dinner."

He shook his head. "Why?" "I wasn't hungry." With that, he shut the door in her face, locked it, and went back to his desk.

He felt...Bitter.


	5. Chapter Four

_He was running, and he couldn't stop._

_Through some sort of dessert, he ran; he felt so tired. His legs burned in pain as he forced his bare and bleeding feet to pound into the scorched ground, kicking up dust as he did so. He tripped over something, sending his face into dirt. He cried out as a sickening crunch of cartlige and bone resounded from his nose. He sat up and held his face as blood rushed forth, soaking into the parched earth. _

_Watching in horror as the blotches of red grew in size until it was a river, drowning him, forcing him down into the depths, crushing him. He struggled to the surface, breaking through surface water and coughing up more blood. A storm was brewing, sending wind whipping at his face, rubbing it raw. He gasped as he flailed his arms and legs, trying to swim through the raging ocean of crimson, and sighed in relief as he reached some sort of island. He looked up and cried in terror. _

_A spindly tree struggled from the black ground, branches bare and sunken. Pinned to the tree, arms spread and feet nailed together - as if the Cruisifiction of Christ, which had been read to him so many times in his youth, was being replicated - was a familiar head of silvery blonde. Ivan looked up at him, and his eyes were a deep, clear shade of sea blue. He wasn't Ivan Braginsky any more. He was Alfred Jones._

_He was looking at his own death._

Alfred gasped awake from his nightmare, trembling. He choked out a sob and scrambled out of bed, waking up the Briton next to him accidentally, and rushing to the bathroom to vomit into the toilet. He kept heaving, even when he had nothing left to offer the porcelain god. Arthur came in, asked him what was wrong, and was promptly shooed away. He wiped his eyes and looked at them, sighing in relief when it was tears - not blood - that were streaming down his face, and collapsed into a corner to cry.

Arthur slipped on his boxers, wincing as his ass throbbed with pain, and pants; he reached for his shirt, huffed when he realized just how gross and sweaty it was, and tossed it into the overflowing laundry hamper. He looked towards the bathroom, where quiet sobbing noises could be heard. He worried about Alfred. Yesterday, he had come back to his dorm with a bruised foot, chuckling like he'd gotten away with stealing the last cookie from the cookie jar. When he asked him what had happened, he told him that he'd been kicking over garbage cans.

He didn't have the heart to tell him how wrong that was.

Instead, he just shook his head and stroked his hair, tending to his foot like nothing had happened until both of his hands were swatted away. Alfred wished he had told the truth. Arthur wished he would be let in a little more.

* * *

**A/N:** Bluh, short chapter is short. :( Well, now you guys get to catch a glimpse of Alfie and Artie's relationship. OvO Let's just hope it lasts, shall we?


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